


Encounter At Nearpoint

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:06:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Hoshi Sato and the Vulcan Database. Trip wasn’t thinking straight when he allowed their recommendations to guide him to “Q’antal’s hottest nightspot”.  Just as well – he might have missed something special.





	1. Shore Leave

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Usual disclaimers and admissions apply.  
>  Title is (natch) a play on the first ever ST: TNG ep title – not a patch on Broken Bow, if you ask me – but the content… no connection whatsoever!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spending his single night's shore leave alone, Trip allows himself to be guided by an unlikely - and unholy - alliance in search of night time fun...

"Trust me, Trip." Her dainty hand curled around his bicep, Ensign Hoshi Sato smiled sweetly up at her restive friend. "The Vulcan database says Nearpoint's _the_ place to hang out for some action on Q'antal; and if it's better than the place I wound up in last night, it's got to be pretty wild."

"Yeah, but do I want to know what a Vulcan librarian's idea of a wild night's gonna be?" He felt a heel being sour to Hoshi, and just because his shore leave was a failure didn't give Commander Charles Tucker III the right to royally screw everyone else's, but his guts were filled with bubbling tar and his heart has taken up permanent residence in his sneakers. Dammit, he didn't want to be cheered up by well-meaning shipmates! He wanted to go back to Enterprise, lock himself in his cabin and knock his head against a wall.

The lovely Japanese threw up her hands. "Okay, I get it; I'll leave you to wallow if that's what you want," she exclaimed, the compassion in her expressive dark eyes at odds with the exasperated gesture. "Travis and I are going to the moonlight market in the main square and then having dinner. If you want to join us..."

"Thanks, Hosh." He grabbed her hand and squeezed it lightly, his eyes prickling with embarrassment at such undeserved kindness. "Maybe I'll check this Nearpoint place out. If nothin' else it'll gimme something newto throw at T'Pol."

Laughing, she stretched to plant a sisterly kiss against his jaw, wrinkling her nose against the scratch of late-night stubble against her satiny skin. "Well, if it brightens your leave... Travis! Trip's doing his own thing, so let's hit those market stalls!"

Tucking his hands into the pockets of his lightweight summer pants Trip rounded his shoulders and wandered in the direction of the notorious nightspot. It wasn't like he had anything better to do, since the person he'd hoped to spend his vacation with had disappeared the minute the shuttlepod hatch had opened.

The streets got less crowded the further he walked from the market; the buildings grew shabbier, rust-spotted shutters covering the windows on the upper storeys, paint visibly peeling from the doors by the light of Q'antal's triple moons. If he hadn't been determined to have a miserable two days' leave, Trip would have turned around and headed back, because whatever the Vulcans said, the downbeat alleys of the main city didn't look like Party Central to him.

Kicking a crumpled can into the slimy gutter he rounded the next corner to be faced by a dead end and a large neon-style sign with a couple of letters out. "The Nearpoi-t Bar and -lub," he read as the door creaked open and a gust of noise - thumping bass beat and raucous laughter - rolled across the alley. "Somebody's havin' a good time."

A cold wind whipped down the narrow street, kicking up the abandoned food wrappers and takeout cups around his ankles. The club's door swung out again, disgorging a pair of giants staggering under each other's weight. Nimbly Trip stepped aside before they could crash right into him. "Don't mind me!"

He thought he got a grunt as the two men weaved their unsighted way down the alley.

Well, the place was warm; it sounded lively; and the liquor had to be pretty potent to knock two men that size off their feet before midnight. With a shrug of his sagging shoulders Tucker barged the door, letting the damp heat and the thunderous music envelop him.

And over the repetitive thump of drums, he distinctly heard the sickening clunk of his own heart slamming into his shoes.

Obviously his preferences weren't as well concealed as he'd thought. 

Hoshi had directed him to a gay bar.

His surroundings went fuzzy, and Trip doubted it had anything to do with the disorientating effect of the music rolling around the ground floor. If she knew he was attracted to men, had she also identified the male crewmate he couldn't get out of his head?

Probably, Tucker conceded. The Communications Officer was an expert in more than simple linguistics. His body language around Malcolm Reed could have betrayed him in a billion different ways. 

Maybe he'd thank her for the tip, if he managed to see somebody who could push that oblivious little sonofabitch Limey asshole out of his head for a couple of hours. If another guy couldn't do it, well, maybe the booze could. 

Stepping aside to let another amorous couple stumble out the front door he sucked in a deep breath and began to weigh his options.

The place was bigger than he'd expected, with a restaurant area suspended above the ground floor on a mesh of wires that resembled a spider's web which allowed it to sway with the movement of smart waiters scurrying between the well-spaced tables, each shielded by privacy screens and verdant displays of foliage. Trip let his gaze drift downward and his mouth turned up. Climbing that elaborate spiral stair would take a guy into a completely different world.

Between the bobbing heads and writhing forms of the dancing crowd he could make out a full-length bar along the southern wall with a dozen handsome young men in shirtsleeves working to supply an endless stream of customers with refilled glasses and, by the hoots of laughter he could hear winding through the music, ample flirtatious banter. 

There were some mighty fine male specimens in the room, Tucker acknowledged, returning the smile of a compact, brown-haired humanoid with light blue eyes and a supple way of moving to the driving beat. 

And some, he amended as he was jostled by a three-eared purple-skinned brick shithouse with razorblades for hair, that only a mother could love. Mumbling an apology he skirted around the dance floor, keeping one eye on the pulsating throng and the other on the occasional empty spaces appearing by the bar.

The two long sides of the room were lined with small recesses, each adorned with a comfortable-looking couch, a small table and a hatch in the wall that evidently linked to the main bar allowing refreshments to be ordered without interrupting - whatever was going on behind the privacy curtains already enclosing half a dozen alcoves. "'scuse me, you hafta book one 'f those things?" he hollered, waving for the attention of the nearest barman, a whip-thin youth with a cascade of silver and gold hair held back by jewelled clasps. 

"No sir, just take whatever's available." Dark chocolate eyes swept his length, full lips turning up in obvious approval. "You're new around here, aren't you?"

"Just passin' through." He looked pretty good tonight in a subdued pale blue shirt and lightweight grey jacket and pants, Trip conceded, but even if the staff were expected to show a degree of interest in new custom, it should probably fall short of a visual stripping. "Um, you got anything like scotch or bourbon?"

For a moment he thought the UT had failed; then the barkeep's eyes lit up and he produced a large bottle of a deep amber liquid that could have passed, even with a connoisseur, for a well-aged single malt. "Looks good," he approved.

The bartender flushed. "It's quite expensive," he warned. Trip spread his hands wide.

"Like I said; I'm not hangin' around. Gimme a double."

Q'antal measures were, he discovered, of Vulcan generosity and Tellarite price. "Would Sir be requiring a table for supper?"

"Nope."

With a toss of his head that suggested surly customers were an occupational hazard, the young man went into his practised sales patter. "Well, feel free to change your mind at any time - there are always tables available, and if you're bothered about being conspicuous, please don't worry. Masculine affection is outlawed on every other planet in this system, so the Nearpoint is used to welcoming a wide range of species: you'll see that reflected in the choice of environments we can offer. 

"You may find some areas a little _surprising_ , if yours is a conservative species, but there's a Chill-Out Zone at the rear of the building, and an observation lounge on the balcony above the restaurant; or you're welcome to grab one of the alcoves if you'd prefer to just take in the atmosphere. If you'd like someone to show you around I'm familiar with all our regular patrons so I could make some introductions, Mister..."

"Trip."

"Mister Trip."

Okay, he'd walked into that. "It's just Trip, and it's okay," he said, taking a cautious sip of a smoky liquor that heated his throat pleasantly on the way down. "A friend of mine suggested I check this place out, so if you don't mind I'm gonna take another shot of this booze and do just that."

The man's soft brown eyes dropped. "Of course, Mist - Trip. There are several recesses available if you don't wish to dance... supper will be served until midnight, the Chill and Observation areas are signposted, and the Incognito Zone is to the left of the bar if you're feeling ah, _bolder_."

Under the lascivious glances he was attracting from the right Trip was feeling more timid by the minute, but curiosity was an occupational necessity - and as good an excuse to go hide in a smoke-filled dark corner as he'd ever heard. "Sounds interesting," he drawled, knocking back his drink and offering his glass for more. "And it looks pretty lively over there. Maybe I'll go take a look."

His thumbnail glass was brimmed in a nanosecond; the cash snapped from his fingers before he saw it move. "If you'd sooner relax in any of the recesses or the Chill Zone, you'll find panels for further refreshment orders on the walls," the barman trilled, his melting eyes already assessing another customer's approach. "And if you change your mind... my name is Boran, and the offer stays open. Enjoy your evening!"

"Yeah, thanks." Maybe he could sit somewhere inconspicuous and get wasted. No matter how attractive the clientele, his hopes of meeting a Malcolm substitute weren't shaping up so well.

A burst of applause close by snapped through his skull and intrigued, Tucker eased his way through the crowd on the edge of what Boran had called the Incognito Zone. He harrumphed softly into his glass, inhaling the pungent spirit with absent-minded relish. _Incognito? More like Exhibition Central!_

A row of large screens stood along a raised platform, separated from each other by rough wooden frames. Behind each a figure or two could be seen in oversized silhouette, moving to the powerful beat of another thumping instrumental piece. Or rather, some were simply dancing, throwing up their arms and their inhibitions alike in the anonymity offered by strong canvas sheets. Others... well, were those guys really doing what he thought they were doing?

Somebody in front of him wolf-whistled. _Yep. Definitely what I thought they were doing. Isn't that what the private alcoves are for?_

Though his face flamed his long-neglected cock still jumped at the sight. Taking another careful sip of his potent booze Trip sidled through the audience into a shadowy corner, surveying the action on stage. On either side of the amorous couple, individuals were undulating in rhythm with the strong melody, arms rising and falling, hips thrusting with the hypnotic beat. The silhouette on the right was lanky and ungainly; that on the left smaller and lithe, his movements serpentine in their smoothness. Each time his arms went up every finger could be seen extending like a professional dancer's, but what _really_ grabbed Trip's attention was what happened when the hands came down.

The man was touching himself. Erotically and increasingly intimately, rubbing his palms down the centre of his chest and toying with nipples visibly peaking under the caress. It was nothing to what was happening right alongside, and yet to Tucker it was a thousand times more arousing.

He propped his drink on a convenient ledge and leaned forward, absently licking his lips as the figure tugged his shirt free of his waistband, letting the fabric flutter against his flanks. The man's head fell back, one hand coming up to sweep over a face Trip knew must be shining with perspiration before ghosting down again, the casual flick of finger and thumb against his fly sharply outlined on the translucent screen.

Trip's mouth dried out despite the best of Q'antal's booze. The man wasn't dancing. He was performing a slow, sinuous and incredibly sensuous striptease.

He made the lowering of his zipper a prolonged performance, his head thrown back as his fingers skittered over balls and swelling cock, the clarity of his image through the screen so clearly defined Trip could even make out the uninhibited moan that parted his lips. 

Sinking back with one hand drifting unnoticed to his crotch, he let his eyelids droop, the sensuous show before him melding seamlessly into his favourite post-crisis shipboard fantasy.

_His quarters were dark save for the silvery glow of stars streaming by the viewport. Wearily he dragged himself over the threshold, already starting to tug the zipper of his singed and grease-stained uniform. If that coolant leak hadn't been stopped, the whole of engineering might have been blown to the other side of the quadrant._

_He didn't hear the soft footfall; didn't realise he wasn't alone until a pair of wonderfully familiar hands came around his, taking the strain of easing his jumpsuit down his exhausted body. "Allow me, Commander," the smooth British voice almost purred as the hands parted the fabric over his chest, deliberately rumpling up the black undershirt. Trip closed his eyes, surrendering himself willingly to his lover's manipulations._

_He didn't know how the man did it; didn't much care either, so long as he ended up naked and sprawled out on his bunk, savouring the sight of Malcolm Reed all black and silver in the starlight, that special, mischievous version of his patented half-smile just teasing one corner of his succulent mouth. Dressed in black leather pants that clung to every line and curve, a black silk shirt tucked into the waistband but opened to the navel, he swayed tantalisingly just out of reach, idly fingering his defined pecs as Trip watched in silence. Drooling._

_Soft, seductive blues wailed in the background as Malcolm began to move, letting his hands wander where they would. Head back, eyes half-closed, the handsome Englishman surrendered to the music and the heat in his lover's eyes, ever-so-slowly untucking the shirt and letting it slither, serpentine, down his arms. One finger hooked beneath his waistband; his eyes flicked open._

_"Oh please, Mal," he heard himself whimper, fixated on the growing bulge beneath flexible dark leather. "Take 'em off, darlin'. Lemme see you."_

_With a wicked smile Reed released his fly and turned, inching the clinging fabric from his luscious ass with an unnecessary wiggle before spinning to face the bed with his fully engorged penis bursting against the restraint of a suede-soft leather thong._

_Trip was sure he was going to come on the spot when the brunet crooked a finger, silently commanding. His legs wobbled dangerously as he stood, lurching into a hot, hungry embrace, his cock rearing happily against its mate. "Take me," Malcolm breathed into his neck._

"Oh, yeah!"

The roughness of the growl against the back of his throat brought Trip sharply back to reality and he stumbled, jostling his neighbour as he sought the darkest shadow to hide his embarrassment - and a monumental hard-on. The burly turquoise-skinned alien regaining his balance treated him to a rueful smile and an offer of his drink. "It's quite a show," he grated, his palms scratching as he rubbed them in obvious appreciation.

Sheepishly Trip glanced down, only to choke and look hurriedly away. Either the guy belonged to a species of three-legged beings, or that was the longest, thickest dick any man ever tried to keep in his pants.

"Uh - yeah," he agreed, cringing at how lost and stupid he sounded. The alien gave his arm a reassuring pat.

"Your first?" he asked sympathetically. "You're a funny-looking species, but I commend you; it takes courage to enter a males' establishment unaccompanied on your first time. My name is Makr'an."

He thrust out a hand, embarrassment increased when Makr'an simply stared at it. "Trip," he announced defiantly. "You from around here?"

"My home is closer, I suspect, than yours." The prolonged instrumental came to an end, winning a huge cheer around the club. Golden light flooded their bay and to more enthusiastic applause the men behind the screens began to emerge. Makr'an's bushy eyebrows did a surprisingly convincing impression of a Vulcan's.

"Although I've yet to see another of my kind entertain as your little kinsman did," he finished, directing Trip's attention back to the stage with an airy lift of a claw.

Bemused, the Southerner glanced over his shoulder, only the lurch of heart against ribcage sickening enough to convince him this wasn't some drug-induced Sickbay dream as his gaze connected with the wide, silver-grey stare of one Lieutenant Malcolm Reed.

Slammed from either side by humiliation and shock it took Trip a few precious moments for comprehension to blend the two together. Malcolm in a gay bar. Performing an erotic striptease in shadow before a crowd of boozed-up aliens. 

_Guess I'm not the only one been keeping a few secrets since Enterprise launched._

"A friend of yours?" Makr'an hinted, one meat-platter hand cupped beneath Tucker's elbow ready to propel him into forward motion. Trip gulped.

"Uhm, yeah," he croaked, fascinated by the way Reed's usually nimble fingers fumbled the simple task of buttoning up his shirt - shimmering steel to match his eyes, but with the unmistakable sheen of sensuous silk - from the navel. "That is we, uh, we're from the same ship."

Makr'an swayed away. "I understand, my friend. On my world too, those drawn to their own sex must conceal - that's why so many of us vacation on Q'antal. Are you going to let your fascinating friend disappear? He's attracting a great deal of attention..."

"Right, yeah." It was true; a dozen pairs (or trios) of lustful eyes were glued to the stricken Englishman still struggling with his collar, and one muscle-bound Q'antali with bright blond hair was striding toward the stage with obvious intent. He stretched up, gently tapping Reed's hand, the jerk of his head making the offer plain. "Ah, well, it's been good talking to you..."

The alien's invitation at least had the effect of shocking Malcolm out of his petrified state; Trip could hear him stammering a polite demurral as he approached, the familiar cadence of his British accent slicing clean through the general hubbub. Discarding half a dozen opening lines in as many strides he let his brain shut down and his instincts run his vocal chords. "Hey, Mal. C'n I get you a drink, buddy?"

"Er - yes, thanks, that's very kind of you." Shock, Malcolm considered as he stumbled down the shallow flight of steps from the dais, didn't usually affect his motor skills this badly, but then, he'd seldom had a shock to equal finding a superior office applauding his antics in a gay club. _Especially this senior officer_ , he thought, hysteria making him giddy.

"Whoa there." The other man's palpable confusion had a paradoxically calming effect on Trip and he wrapped a steadying hand around a firm bicep, confirming his hunch in the process. "Nice shirt. Silk?"

"Y-yes." Uncharacteristically meek, Malcolm permitted himself to be steered to the bar, trying not to stare too openly at his companion and, he guessed from Tucker's smile, failing miserably. His head was spinning and none of his well-honed relaxation techniques, effective against stab wounds and disruptor blasts, were helping slow the frenetic drum-solo in his chest. Charles Tucker III in a gay bar. The last thing he'd ever dreamed he might see.

Sure, it was possible he'd wandered in by mistake: it wouldn't be the first time either of them had got lost in an alien city. But that carefully-honed guileless _aw, shucks_ demeanour concealed a sharp eye. He couldn't have got halfway to the bar without realising exactly what kind of establishment the Nearpoint Club was. 

Yet he had stayed. And now, chatting easily with the barman fixing their drinks, he seemed completely at his ease.

Not for the first time, Malcolm envied his friend that sanguine temper. His hand was trembling so badly he wasn't sure he could even lift the glass being offered, but Trip looked as comfortable as if he were in his own domain back on Enterprise.

The Englishman was mildly put-out to find himself rather wishing he was safely ensconced back in his. This exact scenario had fuelled his fantasies ever since he'd read the Nearpoint's write-up in the Vulcan database, but it had been, he recognised, precisely that. A fantasy safe to indulge because it was never going to happen.

_Yeah, right. As a certain gorgeous blond engineer I know might say._

Still, the numbness was wearing off enough for him to appreciate the tight hold that engineer was keeping on his arm while guiding him out of the bar's crush and toward an empty niche, its curtains drawn apart. For the first time he allowed himself to nervously contemplate what his best friend's presence made plain.

"So; you havin' a good time?" Trip enquired genially, letting the smaller man precede him and perch cautiously on the edge of the niche's shabby velvet couch. He was careful to sit down beyond the Englishman's jealously-guarded personal space, but not _too_ far beyond. The twitch of a brow suggested his delicacy had been noted.

Only Trip Tucker, Reed considered, would try small-talk under such surreal circumstances. "Well, it's certainly proving interesting," he drawled, pleased by the older man's bark of laughter. "I wasn't expecting to meet anyone I knew around here."

"Part of the attraction, huh?"

Malcolm snorted. "If you'll forgive the bluntness, Commander..."

"Bluntness, yeah. My rank on vacation? C'mon, Malcolm, you know me better than that."

"I'm beginning to think I didn't know you quite as well as I thought - Trip."

The Southerner tipped his glass in acknowledgment. "Likewise, but you were about to be blunt?"

"The whole attraction, as soon as I read about this place, was the anonymity. I've been straight since we left spacedock, and that's all right - I am, mostly. But I couldn't resist being gay again for a few hours."

"Been a while for me, too." Trip could feel the weight rolling off his heart with the admission. "Guess Hoshi figured me out."

Both dark eyebrows made a bid for sanctuary in Malcolm's hairline. " _Hoshi_ read up on the local gay bars?" he spluttered. "I don't know her as well as I thought, either."

"Well, she seems to know me a whole lot better than I thought." With a wry grin, Trip slugged down the last of his drink and let the empty glass drop onto the scuffed occasional table to his left. "How do you..."

Languidly Malcolm stretched over him, tapping a small button on the wall. Instantly two filled glasses materialised at the serving hatch. "I didn't actually need a refill, but one can't fault their efficiency," he mused. Trip snickered. "What?"

"That's just so _you_ , Mal," he said affectionately. Thin, well-shaped lips twitched.

"Am I to take that as a compliment, Mister Tucker?"

"Probably, Mister Reed.â€ If he didn't know better, Trip would have said they were flirting.

_Well, why not? Isn't that what folks - gay, straight or bi - do in dimly lit, smoky clubs?_

"In that case - thank you." Taking a sip of his rich liquor, Malcolm risked a peek beneath downcast lashes. His friend was smiling, an almost wistful expression settling across his even features. If he was feeling the same sticky sensual tension in his gut, it wasn't showing.

There again, he acknowledged, it wasn't an unpleasant feeling; the kind that left him edgy, every muscle tensed against imminent assault. Quite the opposite. With realisation came a languorous excitement that uncurled from the pit of his stomach with every sidelong glance and tentative smile he received. Fantasy was fine; but wasn't there a chance reality could be better?

Trip cleared his throat. "That was quite a show you were putting on," he observed, the strain of keeping it neutral making him raspy. Malcolm nibbled his bottom lip.

"It's a while since I've been _me_ in quite that way," he confessed, so adorably embarrassed it was all Trip could do to keep from kissing that blush-stained cheek. "I might've got a bit, er, _carried away_."

"You're on vacation, Malcolm,: you're _supposed_ to get carried away. I just hope me bein' around hasn't ruined anything..."

"No, not at all."

The answer was just too quick to be mere courtesy, and accompanied by the sudden darkening of storm-cloud eyes as Reed glanced up, the tip of his tongue slowly circling nip-swollen lips. "As long as you're not embarrassed..."

"That's not the word I'd use." He was leaning toward the smaller man, Tucker knew. He couldn't stop himself. 

Maybe the same magnetic force was at work on Malcolm, who arched elegantly to meet him so it was impossible to know which initiated their first shy kiss. The moment Malcolm's lips parted to the touch of his tongue, Trip decided it didn't matter anyway.

His dream lover melted into his encircling arms just as perfectly as in his fantasies, a soft sigh rippling over the tongue that duelled with his own. Trip cupped the brunet's perfect backside, his hands sliding over the cream-smooth leather that clung lovingly to every line and curve, gently draping Malcolm over his longer frame and revelling in the trustful way that habitually wary soul nestled into him. The kiss deepened, tongues sliding seductively as their plastered bodies, and against his belly Tucker felt the unmistakable warm weight of the Englishman's growing erection.

Joy made him reckless, the plea out of his mouth before his brain could compute its significance. "Malcolm, darlin'. Let me touch you. Please."

A low purring sound rolled from Reed's throat and he stretched to press a discreet pad on the wall that unfurled the curtains around their alcove. In the low amber half-light that bathed them Trip could see heavy-lidded eyes the shadowy grey of rolling thunderclouds darken further as he tugged shirt loose from waistband and splayed a large palm across the satiny skin beneath.

"I gotcha." Damn, those pants were glove-like, pressing questing fingers firmly against Malcolm's washboard stomach as Trip delved his way down, his own arousal pulsing painfully against his fly at the discovery of hot, bare flesh beneath the sensuous leather. Malcolm whimpered, a wiggle of the hip allowing his eager cock to spring free, florid and pulsing into Trip's awaiting hand.

"C'mon, darlin'." The words, damp against his earlobe, trickled through his hyper-sensitised system like another caress. Mindless, Malcolm dropped his spinning head onto the blond's strong shoulder, enveloped in the painful pleasure that tightened his balls and swelled his penis to a glorious, aching fullness. "Let it happen for me. Jus' let go."

"Oh, God!" Those long fingers manipulated his shaft, exerting pressure in just the right spots until Malcolm dissolved into a river of pure sensation, showers of sparks exploding behind his tight-shut eyelids. Blind, he clawed at the solid length protecting him, soft sobs he didn't hear bleeding through Trip's shirt until the surge began to subside and he slumped, dazed and helpless against the Southerner's come-drenched chest.

While his right hand cupped the flaccid weight of Malcolm's spent cock Trip's left stroked lovingly down the length of his spine, the burning pressure in his own groin forgotten in the pure bliss of holding a relaxed and sated Reed in his arms. He let his eyes drift shut, easing himself down full length on the cushioned couch with Malcolm cradled between his thighs, and breathed deeply, willing his reluctant body back under his mind's control. His balls might be caught in a vice, but even after the best sex of his life he'd never felt as good as this.

He was almost disappointed when Malcolm began to stir, still-sleepy eyes ghosting over what Trip suspected must be the expression of a besotted sap. "Like that?" he questioned softly, unsurprised by the break in his own voice. 

"Hmmm, ever so much." The smallest movement was enough to alert Malcolm to his lover's discomfort and a slow, lascivious smile began to spread across his face. "Would you mind awfully if I..."

"You don't hafta feel obliged," Trip protested, impelled by a chivalrous instinct he would have applauded at any other moment. A dark brow twitched.

"Oh but it would be my pleasure, Commander," Reed drawled, peeling himself off the taller body with the lazy grace of a man utterly at peace. "Perhaps in a more private location? I'm staying a couple of blocks away..."

Raw emotion closed his throat at the bashful offer, but there was one thing Trip had to be sure of before accepting. "When we get home, are you gonna forget this ever happened?"

"Oh, Trip." His hands were seized and smothered with kisses; all the answer the engineer could need even before his armoury officer raised a glowing face to him. "I couldn't forget if I tried and why would I want to do that? Being straight for the last few years would've been a great deal easier if I hadn't been fantasising about you!"

"Funny you should say that." His jaw would ache as bad as his balls if he kept grinning like this, but Trip didn't care, letting his muscles go lax as the smaller, slighter man dragged him up and right into a full-body hug. "And I don't s'pose you'd be willing to reprise that dance routine of yours back on Enterprise?" 

He yelped, startled by the sudden sting of teeth gently nipping the cording of his neck. "Private showings only, I presume?" Malcolm mouthed before suckling the tender skin. A shudder ran right down to Trip's toes.

"Yeah. Maybe I'll even - Jeez, Malcolm! - pull a few shapes of my own."

Eyes that could match the chill of the North Atlantic or gleam with the sheen of polished silver grew smoky with untrammelled lust. "I may hold you to that, Mistah Tuckah," the Englishman purred as he grabbed his partner's hand. "Sure you're all right to walk in your present condition?"

His yelp of laughter as he was dragged at a run into the street lingered long after the lovers were gone.


	2. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several weeks later...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short epilogue from Trip’s POV.

The moment I drag my weary ass over the threshold, I know. It's not the hypnotic drum beat underlying a thread of bluesy music that betrays him; more the tang of sandalwood that tickles my nose whenever he's been in the room. I know it's him, and I know he's there behind me way before his strong arms lock around my waist and those sweet, soft, _wicked_ lips brush a needless question across my nape.

"Bad day at the office, love?"

"How'd you guess?" Office? What office?

"Hmm, well you're two hours late home and haven't been seen in the mess hall since Rostov yelled your name over the comm. in the breakfast queue." It didn't take him long to figure that a touch to the back of my neck turns my knees to water, and his arms are placed just right, holding me loose enough that I can turn in them without ending up in a heap at his feet. 

Which, considering whereabouts that would put my face, isn't necessarily such a good thing. 

I can tell he's hard already; it's the raspiness in his voice that's the giveaway. So when I do turn around, I make real sure to give him a little rub that makes my dick throb too. 

Oh God.

Those black leather pants mould to every line of his gorgeous legs. When I slip a hand around I can feel the buttery smoothness of the fabric cupping his ass like a second skin. Bringing it slowly around to the front lets me feel his growing erection in all its glory and yep, there go the knees again.

It's too easy for him to push me backward so I'm splayed out on the bunk, my legs spread just enough to accommodate the great big hard-on sprouting up between them. He's all black and silver by starlight, a big V of his mouth-watering chest exposed 'cause he's unbuttoned the dark silk shirt right down to his sweet little belly button. 

He's watching me with _that_ smile on his face: the one that'd be a snotty little smirk if it weren't for the laughter that's dancing through his eyes. Arms crossed, head on one side, just... taking me in while I drool.

Yes, that's what the chief engineer of Earth's greatest starship's doing right now. Panting and drooling with his dick about ready to bust out of his uniform because a sexy little English gun-freak is swaying to the beat in just the outfit I used to dream of a lifetime ago, before he was mine.

Three months and three days ago. It's nothing, but somehow it feels like he's been here, a part of me, forever. 

"Am I doing it right?" he asks, and it'd be almost anxious if he wasn't looking so goddamn pleased with himself.

Rubbing his hands over himself, his head thrown back, half-lidded eyes flicking between my face and my cock as he undulates: touching himself like a lover and loving it almost as much as I do. Oh yes, you're doing it just fine, Malcolm, and if I can stop my hands shaking long enough to get out of all these goddamn useless _layers_ I'll come over there and thank you properly.

"Uh... yeah."

His low laugh blends with the music, and it's more than I can stand. Looking's incredible, but I want to touch; to feel him writhing under my hands as I remove those luscious fabrics from his perfect body, running my hands over satiny skin and lean, solid muscles that feel even more sensuous than both. Looks like the quartermaster's gonna be repairing a few more seams; I'm too impatient to be careful.

He'll know to bill Lieutenant Reed. Being discreet didn't work out beyond - oh, two days back on board.

His eyes get dark and stormy as I reveal myself, that cute little tongue poking out to wet his lovely lips. Just like the fantasy he holds out his arms, beckoning me, and I've not got the strength to resist. His body presses into mine; his mouth finds its way up to my ear.

"Take me."

You know something? Fantasy's overrated.

Reality - now _that_ is better than anything you can ever imagine.


End file.
